


Wicked Game

by ToriCeratops



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mob Enforcer Malcolm Bright, Unsafe Sex, feral twink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/pseuds/ToriCeratops
Summary: "Mad Dog" Malcolm Bright is a ghost story, a boogeyman mafiosos tell their kids about at night to keep them behaved.  Gil doesn't believe anything he hears about the guy.  Not a single word.Until he meets him.And then Gil doesn't know what to believe any more.(A Mafia!AU)
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 37
Kudos: 161
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/gifts).



> This fic is the fault of two people. Tom Payne, the angel in a white suit, and [Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/pseuds/KateSamantha), the devil on my shoulder.
> 
> Extra special thanks to both [Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/pseuds/KateSamantha) and [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/pseuds/tess_genor) for the amazing beta work.

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do  
I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you _

* * *

In the summer of 2012, Detective Gil Arroyo joins the Organized Crime Unit of the NYPD. It’s a huge leap for his career and if he can make a good show of it, a stepping stone to even greater things. He’s made so many sacrifices already, lost so much for his dedication to the job. A good year in this department and he’ll be a sergeant before he knows it. 

As long as nothing gets in his way.

He’s with the team four days before he first learns about “Mad Dog” Malcolm Bright.

“Listen, Arroyo.” Shannon leans over his desk like he’s going to be revealing some deep secret. “There ain’t many people you gotta steer clear of in this line o’ work, but the Whitly enforcer is one of ‘em.” He shudders and shakes his head a little, as if trying to clear out a mental image. 

“Come on Shannon, he can’t be any worse than the others.” Gil has seen what kind of damage mob hit men can do. It is never pretty. 

But Shannon shakes his head. “No, listen. When he was just some punk kid he chopped a guy’s hand off, and _laughed_ about it.”

“Why isn’t he behind bars?” Gil doesn’t usually have any patience for the idea that criminals go untouched because cops are afraid of them. 

“Because no one can ever successfully link him to any of his alleged crimes, and witnesses who will turn state and go against Mob Bosses are too scared to point the finger at him.”

It sounds like a ghost story, an urban myth that families tell the cops and one another to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies and intimidate those they need to shake down.

He doesn’t think much of it.

  
  


Three days later he’s in the break room refilling his mug with shitty coffee when two officers’ conversation catches his interest.

“Guys eyes are destroyed.”

“Shit, what’d he do to piss off Mad Dog?”

Gil takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces before turning to join the officers at the table, “Who the hell is Mad Dog?”

Montoya gestures with his own mug towards Brees who smirks and leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes lit with excitement. “He’s the Whitly enforcer,” he starts, his Brooklyn accent extra thick when he’s putting on a show. “Crazy as a loon. Fucking demented that one is. Got this bird he trained to attack people’s eyes. Little thing. Looks cute, adorable, and innocent enough ‘til it comes at you. Calls the damn thing ‘Sunshine.’” 

“How do you know it was him?” Gil has to wonder if the stories of the bird’s size are exaggerated to make it more intimidating or if the bird is made up to begin with. He doesn’t know which one is worse, just having a guy with a trained attack bird or that the bird is small and cute.

“Guarantee, anytime you get a Mob goon in the ER with dozens of tiny stab wounds on his face, it was Mad Dog.” Montoya offers.

“Yeah, but they won’t say nothin’. Every time the story is ‘I didn’t see anything, officer. I swear!’ And ‘Musta been some pigeon or something.’” Brees laughs with a slap to the table. “They ain't ever seeing anything again neither!”

When Gil gets back to his desk a little while later he takes a few minutes to look up cases of bird attacks against known mafia members.

There’s only two, including the one Brees and Montoya were talking about. 

Not exactly a rampage of attacks like they had made it out to be, probably not even related.

Gil goes back to his actual work.

  
  


“Officer Tarmel,” Gil shakes the young officer’s hand with a smile. “Heard a lot about you. Nice to finally meet.” He’s been with the department for two and a half weeks now and is finally getting to meet some of the uniformed officers they keep out roaming the streets at odd hours.

“Same to you, detective.”

Gil gestures to the body that’s broken and bled out on the sidewalk, twisted in several rather gruesome directions, then glances up at the top of the building that’s at least 20 stories high. “So what do we have here?”

“Davey Fallon.” The officer reads off his notepad. “Possible mob hit. Fallon’s apparently been spending some time with all three of the big families. Word is he was attempting to play them all against each other for big bucks.” Tarmel tuts and shakes his head. “Seems like someone found him out.”

It’s not unusual for street cops to have a better depth of understanding of their beat, the good ones, anyway. And Gil’s still too new in the department not to grab at a resource when he sees it. “You got any ideas?”

Tarmel gives him a curious look. “Aint that your job?”

“Humor me.”

“I’d put my money on the Miltons or Watkins.” He offers without any further hesitation. 

”Not the Whitlys?” 

“Nah.” The officer shakes his head and waves off the idea. “They used to have the highest body count in the city but about oh - six or seven years ago they just... quit knocking people off.”

“Really?” That doesn’t fit with everything he’s learned over the last few days. Even the things he learned that weren’t basically folk tales. “I’ve heard horror stories of their enforcer.”

Tarmel looks up with a smirk. “Bright?”

“You know him?”

He rolls his eyes with a nod of his head. “Ran into him a time or two. Got more than a couple screws loose if you ask me. But he didn’t do this. Guy would still be alive.”

“Come again?”

“We’ve never gotten _any_ solid evidence on him,” That much he knows or he would have seen the name in his files more often as he’s been working through old cases to understand the history of the families that are currently active. “But I know he’s gotten his hands dirty. Keeps ‘em that way. But doesn’t kill. There was a guy about two years ago who tried to double cross the Whitlys. Apparently he was afraid of heights and got thrown off a roof. Lived. Once he recovered, retired to Arizona.”

Gil is impressed. He still has a lot to catch up on in the department. But he knows Officer Tarmel has only been on the force two years at most. Which means he’s a listener, and retains the important information. “You know your stuff.”

“Been with OCU since I got my badge.” Tarmel tries to brush it off, but Gil catches the hint of a grin on his lips. Then he points up at the older man with a stern look in his eyes. “Sounds like you need to do some homework.”

“I’m working on it.”

  
  
  
  


Dr. Tanaka is almost as new in her position as Gil is. She’s obviously nervous as she explains all the ins and outs of what ended the life of the man on the table, but she knows what she’s talking about. Even though her hand shakes the tiniest bit while pointing out the scarring on the wrists and injuries that ultimately did Jason Michaels in, her voice is clear, words precise and technical. 

“Damn it.” Shannon kicks the empty exam table next to where he and Gil are standing and begins pacing back and forth across the long side of the morgue. “That son of a bitch.”

“What is it?” The details sound familiar to something Gil has read recently, but he’s read a _lot_ over the last month.

“John Watkins.” Shannon points to the body. “His stomach was empty, wasn’t it?”

Dr. Tanaka nods. “Actually, yeah. It… it was.”

With the name, Gil puts all the details together. Watkins was the prime suspect in seven murders in the late 90s and early aughts with the exact same M.O. as the body in front of them and they had enough evidence to bring him in but could never find him. One day, late 2004, someone left him gift wrapped, literally, on the steps of the 17th precinct. He was unconscious, tied up, beaten to hell with a crowbar, clothes torn and ragged, with a red gift bow wrapped around his neck.

He was acquitted on a technicality.

“So he’s out there killing again.” Gil says. He can feel the tension in the air radiating off Shannon, understands it one hundred percent. “Because someone screwed up with the evidence.” There had been theories it was an intentional ‘screw up’ that someone in the department had gotten paid off but no one was ever even brought up to question. Nothing ever presented itself as a viable option.

“Yeah. Yeah, on my fucking case. This time,” The older detective clenches his fists then storms towards the exit. “We’re gonna fry his ass.”

Before Gil can get out a protest Shannon is gone, morgue doors swinging violently behind him. Gil throws his hands in the air before turning back toward the ME. “Sorry about that Dr. Tanaka.”

“Oh, call me Edrisa, please.”

Gil gives her an easy smile and a nod. “Alright, Edrisa. If you’ll compare our new vic to the old ME reports on the Watkins’ case I’ll grab the files and we can do a full work up.”

“Okay, sounds great! Hey! Did you know I treated the guy who turned him in?” She blinks for a second then shakes her head a little, waves her hand. “Well, I mean, uh, I was there, you know, when he was being treated, I guess.”

“You treated Malcolm Bright?” Gil raises both eyebrows and waits patiently for another tall tale. Though, he supposes if this one is first hand it won’t be as tall as the others.

He’s not one hundred percent correct.

“I was doing my last year clinical rotations and he came into the ER. He had smashed his first metacarpal bone and shattered his trapezium.” She pauses with a finger pointed to the thumb of her opposite hand and looks thoughtful for a second then adds, “Had a stab wound too but the thumb was way more interesting.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

“Apparently, he did it to get out of the cuffs Watkins had him in. It was an amazing bit of reconstruction surgery. Ball Peen hammers are wicked on bone.” 

For the first time Gil thinks that _just maybe_ all the stories about this guy aren’t as far-fetched as he once thought.

  
  
  
  
  


Autumn in New York brings with it a crisp wind that promises colder days to come. It’s beautiful, Gil knows on some level, but despite living there his whole life he’s never really stopped to appreciate it. Some people would say he’s never once stopped to appreciate _anything_ good in his life, but he tries not to dwell on that.

It’s one particularly cool day in October when he finds himself at a high end restaurant having lunch with Martin and Jessica Whitly. A massive art gallery owned by the Miltons has gone up in flames and while the two families have always seemed to the department like they’re in a stable truce - Jessica used to be a Milton, after all - nothing says the relationship couldn’t have soured over time. The couple agreed to meet with him, at their restaurant, informally of course. From everything he’s heard about them so far they’re always eager and willing to put on a show of helping out law enforcement and they don’t disappoint for him. Martin is easy going, charming even. Jessica subtly flirts with him with little nods and winks to her husband who laughs every time and looks at her like she hung the moon. And while they don’t always answer his questions directly, they’re careful about not being too overt in their re-directions.

The problem is, Gil is distracted.

A few minutes into their meal, he catches the gaze of a young man at the far end of the bar. He can’t be much older than mid-twenties, his brown hair pushed back and out of his face, a tailored grey tweed waistcoat over a dark floral shirt with the top buttons undone and sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s got a sucker stick poking out of his mouth that he pops out occasionally to take a sip of his drink before slipping it back between his lips - which he does while keeping pointed eye contact with Gil, every, single, time.

More than once the detective has to clear his throat and force himself to refocus on the people in front of him, the ones with whom he is actually speaking.

Every few minutes though, the long, slender frame catches his eye again. The guy isn’t sitting, just standing casually against the bar, occasionally leaning back against his elbows and very purposely keeping a close eye on Gil’s table. 

As soon as their meal is over and the Whitlys take their leave, Gil makes his way over to the bar with every intention of figuring out what the hell is up with him.

Before he can say anything the kid flashes him a brilliant smile, the soft blue of his eyes lighting up and stealing Gil’s breath right then and there. He’s fucking beautiful, with soft pink lips and a subtle shadow of a beard to help give him just a couple of extra years. 

“Detective, right?” He asks, smile going nowhere. 

Gil nods, trying to get his feet back under him. He takes a deep breath and props an elbow on the bar which the other guy mimics immediately. “Yeah. And you are?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He bites at his bottom lip and leans in closer. “What matters is that the entire time you were talking to that lovely couple over there you were staring at me.”

Gil doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even bother trying to disguise the fact that he’s still transfixed. “That’s important is it?”

“Yeah. Big shot detective like you, good at his job normally, bothered by the fact that you’re _so_ distracted.” He reaches for his drink which has his sucker stick poking out above the rim and uses a single finger to twirl the white piece of plastic around. The movement brings his hand closer to Gil, almost brushing his arm with every rotation.

“You’re pretty distracting.” Gil admits with half a smile. He wants to know what this guy’s game is, needs to know how he knew he was a detective, what else he knows about him, but he might as well have some fun doing it. 

“So I’ve heard…” Blue Eyes sways just a little closer, still not touching but obviously wanting to. “Buy me a drink?”

Gil sighs and shakes his head, putting on a show of regret. “Kind of on the clock right now.”

“Oh come on.” He chides. “I read something this morning that you should take to heart.” Gil can’t stop the way his chest clenches when a single finger is pressed against his shoulder. “‘You should always live in the moment.’ Catching filthy criminals is hard work, detective. Take a break.” Gil half expects him to full on bat his eyelashes but thankfully he doesn’t. Nothing so cliche anyway. No, what he does is look so earnest, so into the idea of just having a drink - and maybe something more - with Gil that it’s hard to think of anything else.

“And what do you know about catching criminals?” Gil asks, trying to ignore the way the finger now slowly making its way down his arm is affecting him. 

“I know I _look_ young and innocent. But I do have a degree in Criminal Psychology and a masters in Criminology from NYU.” His finger circles the back of Gil’s hand once, tracking it with his eyes, then he follows the line of his ring finger down and back to his own drink. He lifts it and looks like he’s going to take a sip but then sets it back down. “Thinking of going back for my PhD after I get some real world experience… _under my belt._ ”

Gil clears his throat. “Really?”

“Really.” He assures him. “And with that level of fine, expensive education, I can tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree with the Whitlys.”

That is better than a bucket of ice water thrown over Gil’s body. He stiffens and rolls his shoulders back. “How do you even know what I’m chasing?”

The kid gives him an eye roll and quiet, incredulous laugh. “Come on, no one is that stupid. The Milton's most prominent money laundering establishment goes up in smoke and suddenly cops show up to lunch with their primary - albeit friendly - business rivals? You, my friend, are in organized crime and you think they did it. But they didn’t.”

“Care to explain how you know that?”

He makes a show of thinking it over, pursing his lips and nodding his head side to side before speaking. “Nah, you’ll figure it out when you run their financials.”

“You know,” Gil says, dropping his voice. “I’d really like to know who I’m talking to.”

The guy’s smile grows wide and wicked. “But I am _loving_ this imbalance here, since I already know so much about you.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“Absolutely. You’re newly divorced.” He touches the finger he had caressed earlier, the tan line still visible where he had only removed his ring a month prior despite the ink drying on their paperwork in January. “So probably highly committed to your job. You've got an air of confidence, which is sexy as hell by the way, but no arrogance. You're good at it, but not a show off, so you get passed over sometimes. You’re just at the right age where if you don’t get that next promotion you’re afraid you’ll be a detective forever.” He leans in close, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “It doesn’t help that you also tend to keep your head down because, occasionally, you like cock. And despite how far the world has come the NYPD is still a good ol’ boys club.”

Gil is frozen, arousal and fear spiking through his body in equal measure. 

Blue Eyes makes to leave, pausing when they're shoulder to shoulder to lean in close, his breath sweet like cotton candy and warm over Gil's neck, sending a shudder down his spine. 

"My name's Bright, by the way. And it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Detective Arroyo."

  
  
  
  
  


Gil isn’t thrilled with his encounter with the mafia’s scariest bedtime story. He’s not exactly _mad_ about it either. It had been captivating, in its own kind of way, but now that he knows, now that he’s aware of exactly who had been coming on to him...

Okay, he’s still intrigued, but he’s not about to admit that to himself.

Luckily, work runs him ragged and after a couple weeks he is mostly able to stop thinking about it. About him. About the blue of his eyes or how his lips curled perfectly around his bright pink lollipop.

Right.

Work.

In late November, a body lands on Edrisa’s table that no one is expecting.

“Well. I guess we don't have to worry about John Watkins getting away again.” Gil stares down at the beaten and battered body of the number one son of the Watkins crime family and sighs. “There will be retaliation for this. Matilda is ruthless on a good day. She’ll be out for blood for her grandson.”

Shannon rests the heels of his hands at the foot of the table and shakes his head. “I’d almost say let ‘em duke it out. Let the families implode on themselves.”

“That’s how innocent people get killed.” Gil warns.

“Yeah, I know. ‘S why I said almost. So what happened here, doc? Obviously someone was pissed. He looks like he went through a meat tenderizer.”

“Close!” She bounces a little with a smile she seems to realize is inappropriate two seconds in if the sudden shift to frown is anything to go by. “Uh, ball peen hammer, actually. Judging by the size and shape of the impacts.” 

Gil does a double take and narrows his eyes down at the round marks on the body. “Are you sure?”

“Well, I’ll do some tests to verify before I write it up in my report but, yes. Actually. I’m sure. It’s um. Look.” She gestures towards Watkins’ left side and all the round bruising there and for the first time, Gil notices the obvious signs of handcuffs that had been on his wrists. “All of these were done antemortem, so they had time to really bruise and the marks are all consistent. They have a deeper impact at the center than around the edges, so the weapon was curved, or, well, ball shaped. If it had been flat the depth of the bruising would be even. Every single one of them is the exact same size and shape and that shape is the right diameter for a standard ball peen hammer.”

A previous conversation flashes through Gil’s mind. He strokes his beard while considering it.

“You got an idea there, Arroyo?” Shannon asks.

“Maybe. Edrisa,” Gil circles the table to look closer at the swell of purple and blue on Watkins’ left hand. “Where was the primary point of impact here?”

She flips through some film in the folder full of x-rays for a second before holding one up to the light. “It was… oh. It was his primary metacarpal bone. Broke the trapezium, trapezoid and cracked his capitate too, but it is _very similar._ ”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Shannon sighs. “Care to share with the class?”

“I think we need to have a little chat with Malcolm Bright.”

  
  
  
  


By that afternoon they have Malcolm Bright cuffed to the table in interrogation.

Gil watches him from the observation room, carefully cataloguing the way he handles waiting, the slight bounce in his knee. Every now and then he’ll move enough the cuffs shift on his wrist and his fingers flinch almost into a fist before he relaxes them again. For the most part he gives off an air of confidence, like he’s relaxed and doesn’t care at all how long it takes them to get to him. But it's his little tells that give away the lie. 

The door opens, snapping Gil out of his concentration.

“How we gonna play this one?” Shannon asks, frowning at the glass. He’s been wary of Bright since they brought the kid in, keeping his distance and letting others handle the heavy work. Gil’s actually kind of glad, this time. He hasn’t admitted to having run into Bright once before, but Shannon’s unease works in Gil’s favor. It means he can talk to him on his own.

“I got this one. You hang back and if I need you I’ll let you know.” Gil gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder before heading out.

The second he opens the door to the interrogation room, Malcolm Bright gives him a wide and beautiful smile. 

Gil has to work very hard not to let it show how his chest clenches at the sight. 

"We meet again, Detective Arroyo.” Bright shifts in his seat while Gil takes the chair across from him, both men leaning in a little closer than they really need to. “I'm sorry it's not under more…” he raises his cuffed hands with a teasing wrinkle of his nose. “...comfortable circumstances."

"This isn't comfortable enough for you?” Gil smirks and gives the chain that’s lax on the table a little poke, noting the tiniest flinch when the cuffs shift around his wrists. “A little Birdy told me you were a fan of restraints, and pretty good at getting out of them."

Bright narrows his eyes with a sly smirk of his own and licks his lips. "Couldn't have been a bird, Detective. Sunshine's not a snitch." 

An image pops up in Gil’s mind, unbidden, of Bright layed out and tied up in the soft green scarf he’s currently wearing instead of the cold, metal handcuffs. Of him staring up at Gil just like he is right now while Gil works to discover everything under his expensive suit.

He lets out a heavy breath to clear his head.

“Oh, I’ve heard of her too.” Gil assures him. “You have quite the reputation in this department.”

Bright leans close, bites his bottom lip and lets it drag between his teeth while holding Gil’s gaze. “I hope it’s a filthy one.”

When the warmth slowly pooling in Gil’s gut becomes an obvious pulse of arousal he realizes he needs to get a better handle on this situation, steer the conversation back to where it’s supposed to be before he does something extra stupid in a recorded interrogation room.

Without pulling away or doing anything to lessen the tension radiating between them, Gil asks, “Do you know who John Watkins is, Mr. Bright?”

Bright snaps back. His spine goes straight and shoulders pulled taut. The cheeky grin has vanished replaced with a flat, empty expression. 

His right hand starts to shake. 

“You mean the man I handed to the police on a silver platter and then watched as your friends let him walk out of here a free man? That John Watkins?”

Gil watches the kid try and regain some sense of control, opening and closing his fist a few times and taking careful, calculated breaths. He’s no longer making eye contact. 

“He’s dead.” Gil tells him.

Bright’s response is immediate.

“Good.”

“You’re not beat up about it, but I guess that shouldn’t surprise me.” Gil leans back and folds his hands on the table in front of him, giving Bright time to process everything.

For a long time, the kid sits there, quiet. He’s a completely different man than the one Gil met in the bar, even than the one he was talking to a few minutes previous - confident and oozing hyper-sexuality. Now he looks smaller, younger, scared. 

“John Watkins is not…” He bites his lip then clears his throat. “...was not the kind of man anyone on this planet should mourn, Detective.”

“How did you know him?” Bright’s humorless laugh tells Gil he knows what he means, that he wants to know about before, before he was Watkins’ victim. 

Before he was the man’s downfall.

“He was a, a silent _associate_ of my father’s for a time.” Bright still can’t seem to look up and meet Gil’s eyes, looking instead at his own hands like he’s ashamed. “There was a, let’s just call it a falling out.”

“When he took you as one of his victims?”

“When he decided he was done with me as his play thing and tried to kill me and my entire family.” Bright shrugs but glances up for the briefest of moments. “I guess I got too old for him.”

There’s an entire world of pain in that one look, hurt built upon a shattered and broken past. 

Gil leans in again, softening his gaze to one of sympathy. It isn’t difficult to pull off, edging on the side of genuine, even. As much as Malcolm Bright is a suspect, he was also a victim of John Watkins who was very much a monster in every sense of the word.

“Do you know how Watkins was killed?” He asks, voice gentle. 

“No,” Bright shakes his head then gives him a sad smile. “But you’re going to tell me.”

“He was beaten to death with a ball-peen hammer. Sound familiar?”

Bright’s attention snaps back to Gil at his words. His blue eyes are focused, searching for something in Gil’s gaze. Whatever he’s looking for he doesn’t give anything away. Instead, his mask of nonchalance and easy flirtation slowly slips back into place. Gil can spot it, the second he starts to hide behind it again, the way his gaze softens, the edge of his lips quirking up on one side. Bright leans in close once more and blinks a few times before reaching for Gil’s hand.

His fingers barely touch Gil’s skin, a feather light caress that’s electrifying.

“Detective,” Bright starts, giving him an easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I assure you, if I had killed John Watkins not only would you never have _any_ indication that it was me, you still wouldn’t have a body.”

The temptation to return the touch is nearly overwhelming. He wishes he could get a hold on his desire for this man - this _suspect in a murder investigation._ But Gil is _weak_ , and touch starved, and leaves his hand right where it is.

“Where were you last night?” He asks. 

“At home. With Sunshine.”

Gil can’t help but laugh. “She may not be a snitch, Bright. But she’s also not gonna be able to give you an alibi.”

Bright pulls back with a shrug and an easy grin. “Good thing I don’t need one.” He holds up his cuffed wrists and rattles them around a bit. “Because I know for a fact you have zero evidence to actually hold me here. So you’re gonna let me go now, and we’ll both just have to hope the next time you have me in cuffs there’ll be far less clothing involved.”

  
  
  
  
  


Despite not being able to hold him, Gil knows better than to let Malcolm Bright go back out into the world without someone knowing his every move.

He and Shannon arrange for 48 hour surveillance. It's an easy approval to get and a rotation is set up with a few uniformed officers and detectives alike. Gil lets everyone on the job know to call him the second the guy does anything suspicious or obviously out of line. 

In the meantime, Gil goes digging.

He doesn't have any evidence that links Bright to Watkins' death more than motive, more than the understanding that Watkins hurt him so it would make sense for there to have been some sort of retaliation. The length of time between the two makes it a flimsy idea at best but it is literally the only lead he has. So he spends hour after hour poring over old files, closed and cold cases alike. Every few hours he finds a string and follows it down another rabbit hole, always seeming to come up empty.

It's four a.m. when he realizes why.

Every trail he follows on Malcolm Bright ends up at a dead end because Malcolm Bright didn't exist before 2002.

There's nothing solid in what's available, no records, no birth certificates, not even anything in the DMV database. Though he would have been 16 or 17 at the time and very few kids in New York get their driver's licenses right away. For someone whose name pops up around the station so often, he would think that they'd have a record of where the kid came from, something about his origins. 

By the time the sun is peeking out over the horizon Gil is knee deep in news reports from the late 90s and early 2000s. Then he spots it.

His answer.

It's an obituary from 1998 for the late Matriarch of the Milton family, Abigail Bruler-Milton. Survived by her children - Diana Milton, Oliver Milton, Henry Milton, and Jessica Whitly - and her grandchildren Matilda Abigail Milton, Harper Leon Milton, Noah Tanner Milton, Liam Donovan Milton, Malcolm Douglas Whitly, and Charlotte Ainsley Whitly.

There's _no way_ that is a coincidence. 

The problem is, he can't find any evidence that the two are the same. There aren't any records of a name change, even if Malcolm Whitly doesn't seem to exist anywhere else outside of that one obituary. 

When he asks Shannon about it later that day the older Detective thinks about it for a minute then remembers that the Whitlys had a son, but he died in an accident at boarding school when he was eleven or twelve years old.

Of course, there aren't any records of _that_ either.

Gil remembers reading the statistics of the Whitly family body counts before Malcolm Bright took over as their lead enforcer. He's seen the images of bodies of men that had tried to swindle Martin Whitly, tried to steal from him, tried to turn on him. 

If Malcolm is more than just family by title, but blood, the suspect pool just got a little wider.

Even though Gil desperately needs sleep, he's due to take over Malcolm watch so after catching a quick shower at home he tracks down Officer Tarmel. They meet across the street from a bar where Malcolm has been sitting alone for half an hour, clearly visible through the front window, occasionally checking his phone but otherwise just sipping a single drink. 

"So what's our boy been up to?" Gil asks him, keeping his eyes on the bar front.

"Guy is boring as hell, man. Spent the day in the library reading medical and psychology textbooks."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Powell said he left his loft at ten this morning and went straight there. When she and I swapped at around one he was still there and didn't leave until an hour ago. Came straight here." JT shakes his head and sighs. "I don't know what you were hoping for, Detective. But this guy isn't doing anything suspicious."

"Maybe not." Gil admits with his own sigh. "But I'm going to keep an eye on him for a little while longer. You head on home. I got it for the rest of the night."

"Hey, you ain't gotta tell me twice. My girlfriend appreciates your sacrifice."

A few minutes later Gil is leaning back against the hood of his own car while Officer Tarmel drives off. It's a crisp night, but the lack of wind keeps it from being too biting and he pretends to fiddle with his phone for a few minutes while deciding what to do. The bar is large enough he could slip in undetected if he does it right, rather than waiting and watching out in the cold all night.

His decision is made for him, however, when he spots Malcolm standing, phone to his ear, and heading toward the back - out of sight.

Inside is bright and loud, tables full of people filling every corner of the establishment. It takes him a second to find Bright again, but eventually he spots him shaking hands with the bartender right before slipping out through the kitchen door.

Gil follows a minute later, quietly slipping past when no one is looking in his direction.

Through the small kitchen he makes his way to the back door which winds up leading out into the end of a long, empty, alley.

“Your lackeys really need to up their game, detective.”

Gil closes his eyes with a deep sigh. When he turns around, he finds Malcolm Bright leaning back against the wall right behind where the door had swung open, one foot propped up and a sucker in his mouth.

Even in the dim light of the alley, he can see his lips are cherry red.

“You were waiting for me.”

Bright shrugs but has a smile on his lips. “I knew you’d show up eventually." He steps in close but Gil shuffles back - not enough to really mean it, just to keep some kind of space between them. "Can’t stay away.”

He really can’t.

They both move, inch by inch, until it's Gil's back pressed against a wall and then there's nowhere to escape. 

Deep down, he knows he doesn't want to.

“When did you spot your tail?”

“I can’t give away my secrets." Bright chides him. "Then your guys will know how to fix them." He perks up a little and waves a single finger in Gil's direction. "To your credit, however, if I hadn’t been waiting for you I probably wouldn’t have known you were on me. I snuck out here hoping you would follow but once I stood up from that bar I didn't actually know where you were."

They aren't touching, but they are _so close._ Gil can smell the sickly sweet cherry on his breath, see the flakes of darker blues and hints of green in his eyes. He watches, mesmerized as the younger man rolls the sucker around in his mouth without ever removing it, wants to taste it.

Taste him.

“What do you want?” Gil breathes out, aching to touch.

Bright pulls the candy from his mouth with a filthy pop. “I think we both know what I want." He raises up on his toes ever so slightly, breath sweet on Gil's lips. "And I’m pretty certain we both want the same thing.”

What Gil _wants_ is to lick the cherry flavor from Bright’s mouth, yank him in close, grab him by the hair and devour him until neither can breathe or see straight. “I just want to catch a killer.” He half lies even as his pulse is racing, pounding in his own ears.

“Surely you’ve heard all the tales about me, Detective." Bright falls back to the flat of his feet, working the sucker around his lips for a moment then pulling it away again. "I’m not a killer. I fight and I break things and I _intimidate_ people on occasion but I have never taken a life.”

“Maybe you haven’t." Gil reaches out, cups the younger man's chin. When he brushes Bright's bottom lip with his thumb a surge of arousal courses through his body at the way the boy nips right at the tip. "But what about Malcolm Whitly?”

The sudden coldness from the loss of body heat shocks Gil when Bright jerks back, a flash of fear in his wide eyes. But the fear doesn't last, his brows drop into a contemplative furrow then he nods, seemingly impressed before plastering on another smile. 

“I fear you’ve been misinformed.”

"You can't fool me, Bright." Gil doesn't move, just watches the way Bright clenches his fist a few times before twirling the sucker around in his mouth again. "They found a way to bury the paperwork about you, about how they changed who you were. For what? To make you less of a vulnerable target? An employee instead of real family? I know you're a Whitly and the Whitlys run this town. They had to have made you disappear for a reason."

Malcolm gives a shrug and a hum like he doesn't really care. "Why do you care, anyway? What my name used to be and what it is now shouldn't have any bearing on whether or not I killed someone."

Gil shrugs. "Depends on why they changed your name. If you killed once and they made _you_ disappear to cover it up, you could kill again."

There's a bark of humorless laughter from the younger man and he seems to actually relax again. Bright steps back towards Gil with a salacious, seemingly genuine, smile back in place. "Oh, Detective Arroyo." He reaches for Gil, comes in close so they're almost chest to chest, barely enough room for his hand to rest just over Gil's heart. "If only you knew how wrong you were about my family."

When Bright presses a soft, feather-light kiss to his throat Gil's breath stutters in his chest. 

“What are you doing, Bright?”

“I want to say ‘my job,’" Bright's lips brush against Gil's skin as he speaks, slowly making his way up, along his tendon. "But," He breathes out, warm and wet against Gil's ear. "I think I’m having too much fun for this to be work.”

Gil can't stop himself from reaching out, from gabbing the younger man by the hips and holding tight. He doesn't _want_ to stop himself. He wants to give in.

To let go.

“And what exactly is your job?” He asks in a whisper.

“It’s my job to know what scares people, to play it against them.”

“You know what scares me?”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yeah, but you’re not afraid of me for the reasons most people are.” His hands dip lower, stroke along Gil’s rapidly hardening cock through his trousers. “You’re scared because of this. Because you want me. Because everything you’ve heard about me is true and that is so enticing to you. The danger is what turns you on.”

“I’m scared you’ll never shut up and put that mouth to good use.”

“Oh, I like you, detective.”

"Oh yeah?" Gil says. "Prove it."

Bright is almost giggling with excitement as he drops to his knees, tossing his half-finished sucker over his shoulder. He works Gil's pants open in record time, fingers moving expertly along the buckle and fly until he pulls him free of the confines of the cloth, immediately wrapping a hand around him and stroking slowly, the soft, smooth slide of his skin a tease and nothing more. Gil watches him work, fascinated by how Bright adjusts and seems to note every reaction Gil makes, every hitch in his breath with a change of pressure, the groan that escapes his lips when he presses in at just the right spot. His cock pulses in Bright's steady hand, aching for more.

He looks up and holds eye contact with Gil as he takes him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hard length as it begins to disappear between spit slick, cherry red lips. Gil can't look away, transfixed at the glint of blue in his eyes, the way his lips curl perfectly around his dick, how he looks so blissful as he's doing so.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful."

Bright rolls his shoulders and looks up with an almost hazy smile at the way Gil talks, pulls back and kisses down the length of his cock and back up again before taking him in to the hilt, shocking the wind out of the older man. He holds there and hums around him, causes Gil to shake and reach out to fist his hand into soft brown hair, unable to stop, needing to hold on as he's overwhelmed. 

Gil smirks when he sees that Bright has pulled himself free as well, lazily stroking as he works at Gil's cock with his mouth. 

For a long time Bright moves up and down, working his tongue in different ways, finding just the amount of pressure that causes Gil to squeeze the fist in his hair tighter, then does it again. Over and over until Gil's entire body is a tightly wound coil, ready to snap at any second. His toes are curled into his shoes, bottom lip sore from how hard he's biting it to keep from crying out.

Bright pulls off with a long, hard suck ending in the exact same filthy popping noise he does when pulling out his suckers. Gil's never going to be able to watch him do that without getting hard again.

"I want you to fuck my mouth." Bright's voice is raspy but firm. 

"What?" Gil can barely see straight he's so lost in the haze of pleasure Bright has him under. 

"You heard me. I can take it." He flicks his tongue under the head of Gil's dick once, twice. "I want it."

Gil twists the hand he has in Bright's hair and yanks, watching, breathless, as the younger man's body curls in and he moans in absolute pleasure, the hand on his own cock working faster. "P - please." He blinks up at Gil, mouth open and teasing at Gil's tip, begging.

It's Gil's turn to tease, holding Malcolm's head still while he presses in and out with shallow thrusts, savoring the feel of his tongue until Malcolm is whining for it. Then he pushes forward with one long roll of his hips, holding him there until Malcolm's eyes are watering and he nods with a moan, free hand fisted in the fabric of Gil's pants. Gil moves, fucking into his mouth, pressing against the back of his throat over and over, taking complete control. It's hot, wet, filthy, and fucking _tight_ and Gil isn't going to last. Not with the way Bright looks around his cock, not with the way he's touching himself, the sounds he's making even as he's choking on it. 

"Fuck - fuck, baby I'm..." Gil trails off as he feels the tension in his spine rise to a boiling point. He tries to loosen his grip, give room for Bright to pull away but he just stays firm, pushing down against him even harder until Gil comes completely undone. His body curls over Bright's as he shakes in his release, every inch of his skin alight with pleasure. Bright swallows him down, over and over, lapping at him until he finally begins to soften and jerks back, oversensitive. 

"Jesus Christ, your mouth." Gil manages through heavy breaths, dragging his thumb along Bright's bottom lip. 

Bright lets out a long, satisfied sigh, looking up at Gil with a soft and languid smile. He wipes his own release off on his underwear before putting both himself and Gil back together and carefully raising up to stand. Gil guides him by his elbow, holding him close and biting back a laugh when the younger man sways a little on his feet.

He slides a hand back into the soft brown hair, savoring the feel of the silken strands between his fingers. Their lips are close, both still working hard to find their breath again.

"You going to be okay?"

"Hmm." Bright giggles. "I'm going to be amazing." His voice is hoarse, quiet. 

His tongue flicks out to lick his own lips, slow, savoring.

Gil kisses him.

Bright's mouth is sweet and salty, the flavor of himself on Malcolm's tongue a sharp twist to the lingering hint of artificial cherry. He throws his arms around Gil's neck, holding him tightly as they lose themselves in one another. Their tongues glide together, tasting, exploring. Gil nips at Bright’s bottom lip and Bright deepens the kiss, pressing their bodies together until they're flush, until all either of them can do is hold on.

Gil loses so much time with Bright in his arms.

Eventually, when they slow, when they haven't had enough but need to come up for air once more, Bright sighs and rests his brow against Gil's own.

"So, um." He clears his throat, still sounding sore and out of it. "What now?"

Reality comes crashing down around Gil. He just got a blow job and spent who knows how long making out with a suspect in his murder investigation - with a known high ranking member of one of New York's most prominent crime families. He's rattled but doesn't let go.

In fact, Gil holds on a little tighter. 

Because it will all likely slip away from him far too soon.

"Now, I go back to doing my job." He answers finally, full of regret. 

Bright nods. "I get that. I do. But I - "

"Look, Bright -"

He holds up a single finger to Gil's mouth mid-word and makes a shushing motion with his lips. "Listen to me. You go do your job. Figure out who killed Watkins. I'll be doing the same thing. And anything I find that might help you, I'll make sure it winds up in your hands."

"If you didn't do this, why are you so worried about it?"

"Because you aren't the only one who thinks I did this. And you are by far, not the scariest one to accuse me of it."

Gil can't believe how worried he finds himself, that he's even bothering spending energy on this. But he's so drawn to him, enticed beyond control by this person he's only known for a short while, who is soft to touch but sharp, like bright fire and danger in an expensive wrapper. "Are you safe?" He finds himself asking, meaning it. 

Caring.

"I can take care of myself."

That, Gil believes.

True to his word, Bright shares every little piece of information he scrapes together. Sometimes the tips come directly into the station anonymously. Others he receives in his mailbox at his apartment in an envelope with just his name on it. No stamps, no actual address. Which means Bright knows exactly where he lives.

He is not as bothered by that as he probably should be. 

For the most part, the information lines up with what they're discovering in their own investigation. Everyone hated John Watkins, even in the family. Especially in the family. Everyone except his grandmother. The entire criminal underground knows that Watkins killed Jason Michaels - by all accounts a beloved and charismatic up and comer in the crew. Anyone who was close to him becomes a suspect and yet none ever stand out as actual killers.

The problem comes when Bright's tip about Matilda's longer and longer psych ward stays turns out to be true. That means there is a power struggle going on since she would be seen as slipping from her iron-fisted ability to command. Which just widens the suspect pool even further, rather than doing anything to narrow it down.

It does, at the very least, give him new questions to ask during interviews which is how he winds up at Burkhead Auto, a luxury car dealership that is a subsidiary of the Watkins Empire and - on paper - owned by Carter Burkhead.

"I am surprised to see you here, detectives." Carter takes his seat behind a massive solid mahogany desk before gesturing for them to sit. The office is large and classically decorated in dark woods with plush looking seating - a stark contrast to the sleek, modern look of the rest of the building. "I would hope that the fine men and women of the NYPD could have figured this one out by now. I mean, everyone else has a pretty good idea of who it was."

"You have to cut my partner here some slack," Shannon jokes. "He's new."

"Oh yeah." Gil gestures to himself, pointing to his salt and pepper beard that is quickly becoming more salt than not. "Total baby," he says with a completely straight face. 

Carter humors them with a laugh and leans forward on his elbows. "So what do you think I can help you boys out with?"

They'd talked about this beforehand, how to go in and ease into the real questions they want to ask. They want to catch him off guard, but not in a way that would make him too defensive. Hopefully, if they can keep up an easy tone, they'll get something useful.

"We'd like to know about your relationship with the Watkins family," Gil says.

Carter shrugs. "I don't deal with them that much, usually. Just for the occasional appearance for financial reasons. John was a complete ass and I typically avoided him as much as possible."

"Oh, we're not here to talk about John." Shannon waves his hand with an easy smile. 

"Not exactly," Gil adds. 

For a moment, Carter is silent. He adjusts a few things on his desk, straightening a notebook here, a pen there. "Well then I apologize gentlemen, I'm not sure what you're looking for?" 

"We'd like to know what your plans are for when Matilda gets admitted to that fancy private psychiatric facility of hers for the last time." Gil catches the rapid blinking from Carter, the way his hand jerks ever so slightly. 

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about." Carter's response is stiffer than before, a shift in his tone from ease to something a little more forced. "Matilda is the picture of health."

"Physically, sure." Shannon gives him. "Especially for someone her age."

"She is getting on, after all," Gil adds.

"Sure is." Shannon nods. "But those mental faculties." He exaggerates a grimace. "They tend to be the first to go. And Old Matilda Watkins was never exactly what you'd call... stable."

The change from cooperative to obstinate is physical. Carter leans back in his chair, arms crossed and brows creased in anger. "I don't know where you men have gotten your information but it was bad. Matilda is just fine and will be lording over us all into our graves. I can't tell you what my plans are, because I don't have any, because that's not going to happen."

“Hmm.” Gil leans forward. “That’s not what we heard. The Families aren’t the only ones with eyes and ears in this city. It would behoove you to be as straightforward as possible in this matter.”

“Even if that were the case, which it isn’t, what exactly are you getting at here?”

“Well,” Shannon says, “with John out of the way and Matilda slowly losing grip with reality there seems to be a power vacuum at the top of a very powerful organization.”

Any lingering pretense of cooperation vanishes from Carter completely. “We’re done here, detectives.” 

They achieved their objective of getting him on the defensive alright, but it's not looking like it's going to work out for them this time. "Look, Mr. Burkhead," Gil tries.

But Carter just cuts him off. "I really can't help you. I would apologize again, but I'm not actually sorry about it. If you don't have any questions about John, then I have a conference call to get to. If you'll see yourselves out?"

A few minutes later, out in front of the dealership, Shannon curses. "Fat lot of good that bastard did us."

"Actually," Gil isn't so sure it was a wasted effort. "We know from the paperwork that he's lying. So now, we know he's actively trying to hide something from us."

It takes Shannon a second, but eventually, he nods. "Now we need to figure out what."

  
  
  
  


It’s almost eleven that night before Gil makes it home. He heads straight for the shower, tired and weary from so many days going non-stop. The boiling hot water pours over his skin, seeping heat into his achy muscles and giving him a few minutes to simply breathe. He stands there, staring at the tile wall, letting the water beat down on his head, his shoulders, and his back. He needs sleep, a real, full night’s rest but even when he tries he can never get there, can’t seem to completely shut down and let go.

Gil stays in the shower for ages, until the temperature drops and threatens to run cold.

He’s out and mostly dry, tying the drawstring on his gray linen sleep pants when a soft creak snaps his attention. Gil holds his breath, leaning with his ear toward the bathroom door to listen for more. It’s a small, one bedroom apartment with decent enough soundproofing - he almost never hears his neighbors.

Another creak.

The click of his front door slowly being shut.

There is someone in his apartment.

As quickly as he can, Gil runs through his options. The bathroom isn’t connected to his bedroom so he can’t get to his phone or his gun. He’s got a few things in the room with him heavy enough to use as a projectile and a can of aerosol cleaning spray he can use in someone’s face. What he wishes he had - besides his gun, obviously - is a shower curtain rod he could swing. But the shower just has a door.

He grabs the cleaning spray from under the sink and slowly begins to turn the handle of the door.

None of it really matters though, because the second it’s cracked, the barrel of a silenced pistol is shoved in his face. 

“Detective Gil Arroyo. Is this a bad time?”

Gil doesn’t recognize the voice, and when he can pull his gaze away from the gun he doesn’t recognize the man either. At least, he doesn’t recognize that one.

“Burkhead.” Gil glares at the bald man standing behind a slender figure with dark, curly hair and tanned skin. “Who’s your friend?”

Carter stays silent but the skinny guy smirks. “Name’s Nico, Detective. I figured we’d be introduced sooner or later so I thought… today’s a good day. Why not now?” He gestures out into the small living room with his gun and Gil goes easily, dropping what is in his own hands onto the bathroom floor. It’s not going to do him any good against the firearm right in front of him.

The three take the few small steps into the living room, Nico facing Gil’s front while Carter moves to stand at his back. Gil tries not to flinch when the giant of a man grabs his arms and twists, yanking until Gil’s wrists are crossed at the small of his back before wrapping a heavy, thick rope around them. 

“What do you want?” He tries to twist his hands, but the ropes are so tight he can barely move them.

“Just to chat a little.” Nico shrugs, not moving his gun.

Once the ropes are secured Carter moves to the coffee table and rolls out a length of fabric full of pockets with small, metal instruments tucked inside. There are knives and pliers and needles and it’s honestly a little more terrifying than the gun pointed at him. 

“Looks like you want to do a little more than chat.”

“Oh, you noticed that, huh?” Nico gestures towards the tools with his other arm and for the first time Gil notices his right hand is artificial. Which might be a useful thing to note if he didn’t have a gun pointed at him while he was tied up. Nico continues. “You’re right. We’re here to chat, and to prove a point. Because chatting does me no good if you go and blab about it afterwards.”

“You have this conversation with all the new detectives, or just the pretty ones?”

“Ah! Funny guy! Carter! He’s a comedian!”

Instead of laughing, which would have been a much better alternative, Carter places a large hand at the small of Gil’s bare back, grabs the rope at his wrist, and yanks.

Pain rips through his shoulders, arms, and chest, as he is unable to bend forward due to the pressure at his back. He’s held there ‘til he can’t catch a breath for the pain, teeth clenched together to keep from crying out. 

“You know that partner of yours, Shannon?” Carter lets up just enough that Gil can catch a gasp of air while Nico talks. “Been around a decade, at least. He’s our favorite kinda cop. Never asks the tough questions, gets enough bad guys to keep his job but mostly stays outta our way through sheer ignorance. You,” he presses the barrel of his gun to Gil’s forehead and Gil stares him down, lips pressed together in pain and anger, “on the other hand, need to be taught how things work.”

“I’m listening.” Gil grits out.

“Lesson number one. Sometimes, the most obvious answer is the right one. Guy gets killed with a chainsaw, you go after the guy with a history with chainsaws. Do you get my meaning?”

Before Gil can grit out an answer, his front door bursts open and Nico immediately moves to aim his gun in response to the noise. 

“Hey!” But Malcolm Bright - eyes wide and manic, in a crisp white suit and black leather gloves, swinging a baseball bat - is faster. “That’s MY cop!” With a massive _crack_ the metal makes contact with Nico’s real hand and a wail of pain fills the room. 

Several things happen all at once.

While Bright grabs Nico’s gun from where it lands on the floor to dismantle it in terrifyingly quick fashion Carter moves to grab Gil by the throat. His hands are massive but he’s far enough back that Gil has enough leverage to get a good swing of his head in and makes contact with the larger man’s face. The impact is enough to put him off balance and Gil is able to drop to the ground just as Malcolm swings his bat again, coming in direct contact with Carter’s stomach.

The giant of a man doubles over in pain and Bright makes sure to crack him on the side of the head on his way down. 

From his position on the ground Gil looks up to see Bright, backlit with the overhead lights shining through his hair as it hangs loose in his face, swirl his bat around a few times before letting it come to rest on his shoulder like he’s just out for a casual stroll with it. The manic look in his eyes hasn’t gone away and his smile grows wicked. 

Despite everything, Gil feels a rush at the sight. 

“Well hey, Nico! Long time no see!” He squats down and tilts his head at the man writhing on the floor, clutching his crushed hand to his chest. “How’s the hand treating you? Well, the other hand?” Bright snaps his fingers with a shake of his head. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have it any more.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, man?” Nico is obviously trying to scramble to his feet.

“Trying to stop you from hurting my friend because you’re trying to pin a murder on me!” Bright laughs. “For what? Chopping off your hand?”

Gil finally manages to pull himself into a sitting position. “That was him?”

“It was like,” Bright shakes his head, pretends to count on his fingers. “Seven years ago.”

“It was _my hand YOU MANIAC!”_

As he’s shouting Nico lunges forward toward Bright, but Bright is ready for him.

He drops his bat and swings it up in a wide, single armed arc, catching Nico in the face. The impact sends ribbons of bright red out in a fountain over Bright, a stark contrast to the white fabric. 

“Shouldn’t have touched my mother! And be glad my father never knew about it or you would have lost wa-hay more.”

When Carter groans behind him Gil turns just in time to see the large man sway onto his feet and scramble forward, one hand clutched to the side of his head, the other reaching for where Nico is writhing on the ground. He lifts the much smaller man and glares daggers at Bright, who is still smiling. “Watch your back, Bright,” Carter sneers. “You’re not going to live long enough to regret this.”

He practically drags Nico from the apartment, Bright slamming the door behind them before rushing to Gil’s side. In a heartbeat the bat and his gloves are tossed on the ground and he is on his knees, working the ropes at Gil’s wrists. His smile has vanished, replaced with an odd crease in his brow and a worried pout to his lips. The second his binds are loose enough, Gil wriggles the rest of the way out and lets Bright help him to his feet.

Bright has his hands on Gil’s bare chest, his shoulders, his arms, his sides, checking for wounds. But his hands are warm and Gil’s heart is racing—adrenaline high. All he can focus on is the touch, the way Bright’s eyes are alight with worry. And so, so blue.

“You okay?” Bright asks, looking up at Gil.

Gil nods and puts a hand out to cradle Bright’s face, steps in closer. “Yeah.” He breathes out. 

Bright’s features soften as he allows himself to be pulled forward. “You sure?” He swallows, eyes locked with Gil’s. “Because I really - really -” 

They clash in a heated kiss, Gil immediately working the buttons of Bright’s blood spattered suit and pushing the jacket back, letting it fall to the ground in a heap. Together they manage his tie and shirt while Gil slowly, deliberately, guides them back to his bedroom.

He should call in what just happened immediately. He should go after Carter and Nico. He should be interrogating the man in his arms on how he knew about them - how he knew so much. He shouldn’t be dropping blood stained clothes in what is, without a doubt, a crime scene. Gil should be doing a lot of things. 

But what Gil wants—what he craves—is Malcolm Bright. He wants to memorize the taste of his mouth, see him naked and stretched out beneath him, feel his skin, the heat of his body, to take him apart. 

Gil Arroyo has spent his life doing what he is supposed to do.

Right now, he’s going to do as Bright said in their first meeting.

He’s going to live in the moment.

They move and step clumsily through the room, almost falling when Bright removes his shoes and getting him topless before they reach the bed. The second his knees hit the mattress Bright scrambles back onto it, shucking his pants while Gil crawls over him to get his mouth back where it belongs, on Bright’s, on his lips then down his stubble coated chin and along his neck. A thrill goes down his spine at the moan that comes from the younger man as he works a mark into Bright’s neck.

“Is this - is this going to be a thing?” He asks, breathless already. “I beat up a couple of ass holes and get… fuck, yes.” Gil can’t hold back on the laugh from the way Bright reacts to him grinding his hips down, his threadbare pants and Bright’s white boxer briefs the only thing between them now. “Because I can make that a thing. I can bring you on jobs…”

“Shut up.” Gil wants to mark him everywhere, leave him covered in splotches of bruises and bites. He moves down Brights neck while gliding a hand up along his chest, mapping out well defined muscles that twitch and jerk beneath his touch. 

“Right, right, nothing incriminat-- fuck, do that again.” Bright arches at the lightest brush against his nipples so Gil does as he’s told, harder this time, watching in awe as the younger man’s eyes clench shut and his mouth drops open. He works one and then the other, absolutely enraptured by the way Bright’s sounds raise in pitch, his hips working harder to grind up against Gil’s. The contact has his own body overheating, craving more, winding tighter every time they come together. 

“You are really sensitive, aren’t you baby?” Gil gives Bright a reprieve, laughing quietly when he falls back against the bed with a heavy breath like he’s just been given the chance for air again. 

Bright’s hands twist in Gil’s hair, yanking him in for a sloppy kiss. “Maybe just a little.” He breathes out heavily against Gil’s lips. “Can you, fuck, if you’re going to fuck me, say my name.”

“Malcolm.” Gil says with a pur, lips brushing, teasing at another kiss. Malcom shudders. “Malcolm.” He whispers again, putting all the lust and burning desire he feels behind it.

Malcolm whines and surges to kiss him again, but Gil wants more than just his lips. He wants everything. He kisses down the soft flesh of Bright’s throat, bites at his shoulder, teases his clavicle. When he gets to his nipple he works the left, dark, pebbled nub with his lips and tongue, reveling in the way the younger man squirms beneath him. Malcolm tugs at Gil’s hair so sharply the spike of pain quickly recedes into a lingering sense of warmth.

When he moves to work the other one, Gil gets a hand under Malcolm’s underwear, groaning when he finds the fabric soaked in precome. He teases the hard length with the tips of his fingers, barely putting any pressure as he strokes a few times up and down before cupping his balls.

“Fuck me, please. Gil.”

“Nightstand.” 

While Malcolm stretches, which is a beautiful fucking sight to see, Gil removes the last of their clothing. He pushes one of the younger man’s legs up, knee to chest, and takes the bottle from him, leaning in to press a kiss to his sternum as he presses a finger in. 

Gil doesn’t go slow, but he does watch carefully, cataloguing every breath, every way Malcolm moves, every noise he makes at the way Gil opens him up. When Gil adds a second finger, Malcolm spends a long time biting at his bottom lip, like he’s trying to hold back, to keep something in. So Gil leans forward, kissing his cheek, his jaw, bends his fingers and fucks them in faster trying to draw a sound from Malcolm. 

He’s rewarded when he adds a third finger and Malcolm gasps, head thrown back and body arched high off the bed, pushing up against Gil’s as they rock together. 

Gil can barely think, barely see straight with how much he craves, how much he aches to be inside him. “Are you ready for me?” He breathes into Malcolm’s neck, followed by another long, marking bite. 

“God, yes.”

He’s too wound up to wait any longer, needs this too much. Gil lines up, and presses in, immediately replacing his fingers. Sinking into the tight heat of Malcolm’s body is exhilarating, a punch to the gut that steals his breath. 

Malcolm rocks up to meet him, letting out small, half formed curses over and over until Gil is pressed in to the hilt. He doesn’t give him long to adjust, watches Malcolm’s face closely when he pulls back before snapping forward. 

His arms are shaking considerably and he knows he’ll feel the pain and soreness in his limbs, back, and shoulders tomorrow, from the attack earlier, and now from this. But right now he doesn’t care. Right now, his whole world is the heat of Malcolm’s body around his cock and the beautiful way he arches beneath him, the sounds escaping Malcolm’s lips, the way his body reacts to every pounding thrust of Gil’s hips. They move like that for a long time, Malcolm nearly folded in half, hips rocking to meet Gil’s every time, silent save for the filthy sound of their bodies sliding together and the soft mewls of pleasure escaping Malcolm’s lips. 

It almost becomes too much, the shaking, the tension in his arms, the tight coil building in his gut and in his spine with every movement. Gil has to drop to his elbow, shifting and changing the angle so that instead of long, drawn out thrusts he’s rocking in hard and deep. It’s just the right way to take Malcolm’s cries from soft noises to shouts of ecstasy.

But his shouts seem to vanish when Gil finally gets a hand on Malcolm’s cock and starts to pump. He is completely out of rhythm with his own movements but he doesn’t care, just gets lost in the way Malcolm begins to tighten around him, sounds being replaced with quick inhales of breath, held in silence for longer and longer until he throws his head back and comes. 

He clenches around Gil, his whole body trembling as streaks of white coat his stomach. It’s almost too much for Gil, the way he looks arched and abandoned to his own pleasure, the way he feels, the way he clings to Gil.

“Mal - Malcolm I…” He doesn’t slow down, but he’ll need to soon. He can’t last like this, wound too tight and on the edge, every muscle clenched up and ready to break. 

“Do it.” Malcolm laughs - a breathy sound - and draws blunt nails down Gil’s back. “Don’t stop. Please.”

His hips stutter and everything flashes bright behind his eyes when he finally snaps, a hard pulse of pleasure exploding at his center and radiating out over every muscle, every inch of skin until he’s light headed with it. Gil finally stills, buried deep inside Malcolm, both men clinging tightly to each other as the final aftershocks pulse through his body.

Eventually, Gil rolls to the side, landing on his aching back while the world slows down and comes back into focus. His chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath and he jumps when a hand lands on his stomach. Malcolm is breathing just as heavily as he is. With a contented smile and easy hum he leans over Gil, kissing at his shoulder and chest until he reaches his lips. They lay there sharing languid kisses and soft touches for a long time.

Eventually the world settles, their breathing evens out, and Malcolm nuzzles into Gil’s neck.

“Can I ask you something?” Gil says while running his fingers through soft hair.

“Can I stop you?” Malcolm smirks at him.

He stifles a laugh, figuring this is going to be the most honest the guy’s going to be with him. “There are horror stories out there about you and the things you’ve done. Like you’re the boogeyman.” 

Malcolm pops up on one elbow and looks down at Gil, searching for something. Whatever he sees doesn’t scare him away because he smiles. “Oh really?”

“Yeah. I was just wondering, how much of it is true?”

For a second Malcolm stares at him, wide eyed, but then he breaks into an easy laugh, dropping his head onto Gil’s shoulder. It’s loud and beautiful. “Do I need to bring my lawyer to join these proceedings in the future?” He starts kissing Gil’s skin again and Gil thinks maybe he’s getting addicted to the sensation of Malcolm’s lips anywhere on his body. “I can ask her. She’s pretty hot. Not really my type though.”

Gil makes a show of thinking about it, pouting his bottom lip out with a frown before shaking his head. “No.” He says eventually, “I’d like to keep you all to myself.” His words come out more serious than he intends, heavier, but no less true.

Malcolm seems to pick up on that and blinks in shock for a moment before stealing another slow, easy kiss. “Good. Because I’d like to be yours.”

  
  
  


In the summer of 2012 Detective Gil Arroyo joined the Organized Crime Unit of the NYPD. It was a huge leap for his career, a stepping stone to even greater things. He had made so many sacrifices already in his life, lost so much for his dedication to the job. 

A good year in that department and he would have become a sergeant before he knew it. 

But something got in his way.

He doesn’t regret it in the slightest.

**Author's Note:**

> [If you're PSON trash and you know it come trash it up with us on Discord.](https://discord.gg/nDDAut)


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